


Resolution

by ifonlynotnever



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: ABC Cafe / Red and Black, Angst, Doubt, Future Tense, Hope, Introspection, M/M, Present Tense, Regret, unrequited (?) love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifonlynotnever/pseuds/ifonlynotnever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who cares about your lonely soul?" he says, flattening out the question, and grits his teeth when it comes out so much softer, so much bitterer than he intended it to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolution

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sure this has been done before, it pains me. Still, I couldn't help myself. The delivery of that particular line in the movie just struck something in me. Whether or not the Enjolras/Grantaire is requited or not is entirely up to you; I left that ambiguous.
> 
> Also! I've loved the musical for ten years, but I'm only now starting to read the book. I'm sure I'll have a better grasp on characterization once I finish it? S-so sorry if it's a little off.
> 
> Nothing belongs to me, &c., &c...

It's bad enough that Marius's sudden infatuation makes Grantaire even worse ( _Or better?_ Enjolras wonders. Even sarcastic and teasing, there is a lack of true cynicism, something like softness, like approval, like supportiveness to the way Grantaire jibes at Marius.) than usual but the entire thing makes Enjolras uncomfortable. Certainly, this new development might well undermine Marius's loyalty to their cause, but Enjolras doubts it; the boy is every ounce as invested as the rest of them. No, it's different. It's simply—There is something—

 

There is something about it.

 

—

 

Marius says, just as quietly passionate as he gets in the midst of any moral debate, "Had you been there today, you might know how it feels to be struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight," and there is something about it that stings Enjolras, hits him just beneath the breastbone, makes him ache.

 

There is something about the way he continues, about the way he says, "Had you been there today, you might also have known how your world may be changed in just one burst of light—" that makes Enjolras's blood pound in his ears, makes him _angry_. Hopelessly angry and maybe just a little bit angrily hopeless.

 

And then it gets worse, because then Grantaire joins in, twists his rallying cry into something about _soul on fire_ and _the world if she's not there_ and _the color of desire_ and _the color of despair_ , and all Enjolras can think is, _oh, oh, oh._

 

—

 

Perhaps he is too harsh; perhaps he should not have brought up what he knows of the Pontmercy family; perhaps he should not have patronized Marius so. He finds he cannot help himself, though, cannot stop the words that spill out, can't keep himself from being _Enjolras_.

 

"Who cares about your lonely soul?" he says, flattening out the question, and grits his teeth when it comes out so much softer, so much bitterer than he intended it to.

 

"We strive towards a larger goal," he says, stronger, and it is a reminder that makes his fingers tighten reflexively on the surface of the table.

 

"Our little lives don't count at all," he says, tongue sharp with bitter truth, and resolutely does not look at Grantaire, at the shape of his mouth, at the blush of drunkenness across his cheekbones, at the oddly sober shrewdness that never quite leaves his eyes.

 

"Red: the blood of angry men," he says, and it is conflict and resolution all at once.

 

—

 

(He will die; he knows this deep in his bones. And sometimes, deep in the night, he thinks, _But why? Why me? Why must I be the one to do this?_ And then he thinks, _But if not me, who? Who would do this for the sake of our freedom, our country, our brothers and sisters?_ It is vanity, perhaps, or hubris; but it also the truth.)

 

—

 

(Later, he will watch Marius take a bullet and think, _I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, my friend. I know how it feels to leave one behind, I know how breathless delight feels, I know that burst of light._ He will think, _I'm sorry you will never see her again, nor she you,_ and for the first time he will regret it all, deeply, despairingly. But he will not falter. He will never falter.)

 

—

 

(Even later, after the barricade falls and they retreat to the Musain, he will think, _I could not have had him anyway. He would not have given up his drink and his whores. He would not have loved me._ )

 

—

 

(Except—in the end, he will have him. For a few brief moments, he will have Grantaire and Grantaire will have him, in the clasping of hands and the drape of red across their shoulders, framed in a window, and he will think, fleetingly, _Perhaps we could have had something wonderful. All of us. Each of us._ But then Grantaire will smile, and Enjolras will remember the way those lips looked caught mid-laugh or pressed against a bottle or shaping Enjolras's name, and the soldiers will shoot, and they will be together at last, together in their fall, in their death, together, together, _together_.)

 

—

 

(And perhaps it will not be in the way he might have wished, or longed for, or denied he ever wanted, once upon a time, but it is _together_ all the same.)


End file.
